


A Leg to Stand On

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hospital, Injury, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-17
Updated: 2007-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I suggest you put your pants back on."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Leg to Stand On

**TITLE:** A Leg to Stand On  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship  
 **RATING:** PG-13, for a vaguely suggestive situation.  
 **WARNINGS:** None.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **SUMMARY:** _"I suggest you put your pants back on."_  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** No angst. No death, no guns, no knives, no brass knuckles, no brain damage, nobody gets sick, nobody dies. It's actually a little ... fluffy. How can it possibly be a Nightdog story?  
 **BETA:** My amazing First Readers, who went through at least three iterations of this without getting tooth decay. Thanks especially to [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) for her invaluable suggestions on structure and summary.

  


  
 **A Leg to Stand On**

Wilson girds himself with the armor of nonchalance as he swings into the hospital on his crutches.

He's prepared, he thinks. Prepared for the stares, the looks of sympathy, the surprise, the inevitable _"Oh my God, Dr. Wilson, what happened?"_ from Cameron.

He's even prepared for House's jokes, his snide gibes at the clear and unmistakable evidence of Wilson's ineptitude.

What he _isn't_ prepared for is House's dogging his steps everywhere and never, ever shutting up.

"How did you do this again?"

They're in the clinic; House is sucking on the eternal red lollipop as he regards Wilson's left leg.

Wilson scrawls his signature on a chart and hands it back to Brenda.

"I told you. I was leaping a tall building in a single bound."

House slurps noisily at the candy.

"I was saving a puppy from drowning and a unicorn gored me."

Brenda gives him a funny look. Wilson throws up both hands, careful to keep his crutches in place.

"Do you want to broadcast it over the hospital PA? I'm really Jack Bauer and I was tortured by the Chinese all weekend." He glares at House. "And the commander looked a lot like you."

House takes the lollipop out of his mouth.

"You said you hurt it playing racquetball," he says mildly.

"And that's the truth. Remarkable, isn't it?"

Wilson swivels to head back to his office. Like he's been doing all day, House follows.

"You need an MRI."

"I do _not_ need an MRI." Wilson hobbles faster. Christ, how does House manage to move so fast on a bum leg? "It's a pulled muscle. It'll be fine."

"We're already in the clinic," House points out in an uncanny facsimile of a reasonable voice. "We could just duck into one of the exam rooms, I could give it a quick look-see --"

"Been there, done that," Wilson says grimly. "ER, Saturday afternoon. Check the records if you're so interested."

"Already did. The fact that it hurt enough to go to the Emergency Room is a clear indicator that an MRI should've been ordered then."

Wilson jabs at the elevator button, but not quickly enough to keep House from scooting in beside him.

"And now it's been almost two days," House continues, choosing to ignore the fact that Wilson is now bracing his right forearm on the elevator wall and resting his head against it. "More than enough time for bad things to start happening to good people. Circulation collapse, sepsis --"

"Wait a minute." Wilson raises his head and stares at House with narrowed eyes. "Did you just call me _good?"_

The elevator doors slide open; House takes advantage of the mechanical interruption to not answer Wilson's question.

"You need an MRI," he repeats.

Wilson tries again to shut a door in House's face (his office door, this time) and fails.

"House. It's a _pulled muscle._ Orlovsky diagnosed it, prescribed bed rest, _which I got,_ crutches, _which I'm using,_ and painkillers, _which I'm taking."_ Wilson props his crutches against the edge of his desk and shrugs out of his labcoat.

"Then let me examine you."

 _"No._ Look, I know what you're thinking, and _it's not that."_

"Not what?"

"An infarction."

"See? You've considered the possibility that it might be."

Wilson wants very badly to scream, but this is a hospital after all and it would probably set a bad example to have the doctors screaming. He pinches the bridge of his nose instead as House keeps talking. It's a poor substitute.

"I'll bet he even gave you free samples of Vicodin. Percocet. Magic happy pills, make you not notice your quad is dying. Now are you going to let me examine you?"

"House --"

"I'll take that as a no." And before Wilson can say yes, it's a no, House has hooked the handle of his cane behind Wilson's right ankle and yanked, hard.

It takes Wilson a moment to realize he's lying on his back; he's not used to seeing his office from this angle, and what with the air being driven out of his lungs and all it's a little hard to focus. It takes him another moment to realize that House is sitting on him, straddling his hips, and that's not really so bad because it's a nice, _warm_ weight, except that --

House's hands are unbuckling Wilson's belt.

"House --" Wilson croaks, and tries to bat away the efficient fingers that are even now undoing the waist-tab button on his pants. House lets go of the button, but it's only to grab Wilson's wrists and pin them gently but firmly to the floor. He leans forward.

"Don't be an idiot." House is speaking slowly, enunciating every word as if he's talking to a four-year-old. "I just don't want you to end up like me, okay?" He tightens his grip fractionally. "Now we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but _either_ way I'm taking a look at your thigh."

Wilson swallows. "There's a hard way?"

The barest hint of a smile quirks at House's lips.

"I could've waited until your back was turned and clocked you."

"Yes, because assault and battery has always been a recognized medical procedure by the AMA." Wilson sighs. "Fine, go ahead. My office, the locker room."

With House moving carefully to one side and Wilson lifting his hips, the pants end up around Wilson's knees.

"This hurt?" House pokes at a particularly sore spot, and Wilson draws in a sharp breath. "How about this?"

 _"Ow!_ It hurts, okay?"

House's touch gentles as he continues to prod, following the crest and wave of the large thigh muscles as easily as a sailor reading an ocean chart. His fingers arch over Wilson's leg from groin to patella, searching for signs of tenderness, of swelling, of heat. Wilson relaxes under his hands; it's surprisingly soothing and he wonders briefly if this is what House feels like during a massage.

"I think it's just a pull," House says at last. He sounds disappointed.

The hands on Wilson's thigh disappear and he misses the warmth.

"Told you," Wilson mumbles.

"Yeah, well. You got lucky. I still want you to get an MRI -- T1, T2 weighted. If it's not better in forty-eight hours we'll do a core-needle biopsy --"

"We'll do no such thing!" Wilson struggles to sit up, and House lays a calming hand on his chest.

"It's the best way to determine --"

There's a rap at the office door, and before either of them can answer, it opens.

To her enormous credit, Cuddy doesn't bat an eye as she takes in the scene before her.

"Do I really want to know," she asks dryly, "why one of my department heads is lying on the floor with his pants down, while another department head is crouching next to him with his hand on his chest?"

Wilson can hear his pulse pounding in his ears.

"House ... he --"

"Wilson's gay," House announces.

 _"What?"_

"Well, you are! You don't have to prove it to me!"

"I am _not!"_

"Oh, you're in such denial --"

"Shut _up!_ Both of you!" Cuddy's shout has the desired effect. She takes a deep breath. "I don't want to know what's going on here. I don't _care_ what's going on here. All I want is for the two of you to be in the main board room for the meeting that started _ten minutes ago."_

She fixes each of them with a steely glare.

"Got it, _boys?"_ Even House nods meekly this time.

"Good. And -- Dr. Wilson? I suggest you put your pants back on before leaving this office."

Both men breathe a sigh of relief as she turns on her heel and stalks off.

Wilson lets his head drop to the floor with a thump.

"Shit," he moans.

"Ah, it's okay," House says cheerfully. He folds his legs under him and uses his cane and the nearest desk chair as leverage to rise from the floor like a gawky stork.

"How can this possibly be okay?" Wilson asks.

House tries and fails to hide a sly smile as he helps him to his feet.

"Look at it this way," he says as Wilson pulls his pants back up. "I just saved you the trouble of making her the fourth Mrs. Wilson."

He hands Wilson his crutches and gives a cursory brush to the back of his shirt. "Now, about that MRI --"

~ fin


End file.
